Sin and Sanctity
by Albino Magpie
Summary: A wedding without a groom, a love without reason and half a happy ending. Russia/Belarus


**A/N: **I noticed a depressing lack of good Bela/Russia fics (you know, the ones where she _doesn't _get bashed?). For maximum effect, listen to "Ever" by Emilie Autumn while you read this. If you're a Bela fan, you might get a bit melancholic.

**Warnings:** Sibling incest, alcohol, drunk driving, personified countries and half a happy ending.

It was supposed to be perfect. She'd been saving up for the dress for years and years. She'd even called some of her precious few friends for advice, not that it had helped much. But it had felt good, it had felt right. Planning was fun. When she'd asked; „What do you think? Eggshell, pale blue or pure white?", and Elisaveta had replied ,„I'm not sure you know what you're doing right now. You're...delusional.", and she'd thrown the telephone at the wall – an old, red plastic monstrosity with a dial plate (It was because of him she couldn't afford anything better.) - it had felt good.

And she'd said to herself „Eggshell it is!", because she'd never liked pure white. She hated snow sometimes, it was so like herself. And so like him. And she hummed to herself and laughed and laughed till she cried, and then she cried in earnest. But it felt so good to cry.

She'd chosen the biggest, most beautiful room in her house. A church would've been no use. Everything was outfitted in shades of beige, off-white and eggshell. A giant cake decorated in cream roses over and over dominated one of the tables. Music was playing, and it sounded tinny because she only had an old gramophone. But she'd made it as perfect as she could.

Empty rows of chairs all around, but that was okay. Guests were unimportant anyway. No priest, no functionary, no bridesmaids. No one had wanted to come. Or maybe they had, she didn't send out any invitations. She gave herself a once-over in the mirror first. The dress was wonderful, it trailed to the floor in a profusion of fabric that looked almost liquid. The bodice was sewn with rows of tiny pearls, the shape of snowflakes. A string of pearls around her neck that looked as delicate as a swan's, but maybe it still wasn't good enough – breakable enough – for him.

It had been a pain to reach the dresses zipper at her back, but she'd had to manage on her own, because nobody wanted to help her. Everyone had found excuses, something else was always more important. Finally she'd even asked Toris, and seen something in his eyes break as the words left her mouth. He'd mumbled something about his president organizing a festival, and that he didn't have the time.

She almost felt sorry for him, and then she wondered if she should let him have his chance because they were both lonely, or simply kill him, because he was the reason for her loneliness. But no such luck, not a chance with the UNO around. And it would only alienate her farther from her brother. They'd been close once, so close, as he'd warmed her frozen fingers with his breath and smiled at her from under his hat that had slipped. They'd stuck with each other through the cold and the dark and everything else, but then it just broke. Everything broke. She'd been half a child still when she asked him first „When I grow up, we'll marry, right?" and he'd just smiled and she'd taken it as a yes and pressed her cold lips to his in an almost-chaste kiss and curled her fingers in his coat.

The same fingers that were covered by long, pretty gloves now. Lace and pearls all over, shades of almost-white, eyes that were the same as his...

She'd painted her lips as red as she dared, and it made her skin look even paler in comparison. Her eyelashes were black as soot, and she looked sweet as sugar and deadly as poison. Her hair was tucked up in a sleek chignon, and a silk sunflower into it.

The bow that her veil was affixed to was old. She'd had it for a few centuries, and it symbolized her capital. An adornment, something that wasn't even quite part of her. She'd give it up for him.

The dress was new. It had cost a fortune, and it was too loose in some places and too tight in others, but it looked pretty either way.

The gloves were borrowed from Elisaveta, who'd shaken her head but said nothing. It was a strangely satisfying feeling to be feared. Except for...

The garter was blue. She'd stuck a long, thin knife in it just in case. It felt better to have a knife at hand, just in case she needed it.

The room was as empty as it was large, and the wedding march was playing over and over, in an orchestral version were half of the players had messed up. She danced with herself all over the hardwood floor, almost stumbling over the train of her dress and the uncomfortable high-heeled shoes. Her arms felt empty and cold.

„I declare you husband and wife.", she said, walking towards the cake with slow, deliberate steps.

„You may kiss the bride.", she said as she picked up a knife.

„What God hath joined together", she said, beheading the figures on the cake topper – the groom a good head taller than the bride, both of their hair a peculiar shade of dull gold, both dressed in white – with a swift strike,"let no man put asunder."

She tugged off one glove and tried the icing with a thin finger, it was sickly sweet. Then she picked up the new telephone she'd bought, and dialed a number she knew too well. No wedding was complete without a groom, after all. After a few seconds, someone picked up.

„Brother-" was as far as she got before the line went dead again.

She ignored the champagne that had cost almost as much as her shoes and went straight for the vodka. When she knocked back a shot, tears stung in her eyes not because of the harsh liquid, but because she remembered he'd been reluctant to even import it. She wiped at her eyes with one hand, heedless of the way her mascara smudged.

Half a bottle later, she was sitting on the floor and singing softly to herself, an old tune from her childhood. She felt lonely. She didn't want to feel lonely. It wasn't fair that she had to sit here and cry. Since when did she mope around instead of solving things?

Slowly, she pulled the knife out of her garter. She cut the obstructive train of the dress off, and then she cut and sawed until the ragged fabric went no farther than her knees. She tore the veil from her head, and then the sunflower, rendering the ever-present bow askew but not removing it. Then she picked the hairpins out one by one, until her tresses reached to her elbows again. And then she went outside. On the way to the garage, she kicked her shoes off. They were too annoying, and impossible to drive with. Her car was old and half of the paint was missing, what was still there might have been blue. But it went reasonably well on frozen roads, and that was far more important.

The drive was almost uneventful considering her inebriated state, until suddenly a tree loomed ahead and she had to wrench the steering wheel aside to avoid crashing into it. She stepped on the brakes and made them screech after what might have taken three days or five minutes. When you were nothing but a projection of a collective conscious, distances became secondary. The car stopped in front of a half-mansion, half-palace. She knew the gate's combination – some of her people were amazing computer hackers, thank you very much. And the ends did justify the means.

Didn't love justify everything?

He was in his office if she suspected correctly. The door wasn't locked this time. What a pity; she'd looked forward to kicking it down. He was bent over a sheet of paper and a book of figures, reading glasses not quite slipping off his nose and eyes not quite slipping shut. He looked up, startled, as she stepped in, and saw something that looked like the ghost of a woman. Her hair was messed up, her makeup smeared and her dress torn. She was barefoot, and the knife she'd been clutching fell out of her hand and clattered to the floor as their eyes met.

Then she started weeping like her heart had been broken, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He stood up slowly, and felt for a moment like he was approaching a wounded and dangerous animal. She fell into his arms, and he held her like he hadn't for hundreds of years. She felt small and frail, and he bent down and kissed the hot tears from her cold cheeks. She turned her head just a bit, until his lips brushed hers, and they stayed like that for a moment that seemed to last several lifetimes. Then she buried her face in his chest and wept harder still.

They swept all the paper and pens and books from the desk. They both got bruised and scratched and bitten all over. They joined like they were supposed to, or weren't supposed to. Right and wrong. Sin and Sanctity. It would break again, they'd separate and who knew when they'd get together again. But for the moment, she had her paradise.

It had been supposed to be perfect, and it was.


End file.
